by Lynde Lakes
Chapter Two
Brian Jones surveyed the manicured grounds of the mansion. If careful, he could fit in here quite nicely. “Ahwooooo!” He let loose with a low howl. It was a break to find work so quickly. The gardener job was perfect. He inhaled the wonderful fresh air. Outdoors—how he loved it. And finding shelter in a nearby cave was another piece of luck. Still, he had to remain cautious—for him, nowhere was danger free. Last night he’d experienced first-hand a sample of the expanding danger when a wolf hunter’s bullet zinged over him close enough to crease his fur. Fortunately, out-running and side-stepping danger had become part of his DNA. The bullets fired at him only proved he’d have to be more careful in his moonlight carousing.
Without warning, his past swirled around him like a sky full of hungry vultures. He raked his hair, suddenly feeling bottom-of-the-barrel low. Cursed by a lycanthropy gene, he’d been in crisis since the day he was born and the sense of chaos increased by leaps and bounds each day. He didn’t know his history or why, when the moon was full, he turned into a werewolf. He only knew it was under just such a fully-rounded brightness that, as a baby, he’d been abandoned in the wilds of the California desert to die. It seemed to him that being born with a lycanthropy gene didn’t deserve being discarded like roadside trash.
Time turned back to that chilly desert night. Under the glare of a full moon, he’d laid on a mound of sand, half infant-half wolf cub, shivering, howling his heart out, and starving.
Wolves circled him, growling, bearing sharp incisors, and salivating. He howled in terror when the largest of the pack grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into his liar. He’d felt sure the big wolf was going to eat him. He stopped howling when the alpha turned him over to a mother wolf. She licked him, pawed at him, guiding him to one of her full nipples to suckle with the younger cubs. Then, she raised him, side by side, with his new siblings.
He remained with the pack, living wild until about age seven when he wandered off and fell into the steely camouflaged snare of a woman named Maggie. The fall into the deep hole broke his leg and made escape impossible.
The lonely old woman, who folks in Trona called witch or old hag, danced around the netted trap, shouting, “I caught myself a young wild wolf to train like a dog to share my lonely hours.” Later, when he shifted back to a boy, instead of acting disappointed he wasn’t a regular wolf, the bent, rail-thin woman who smelled like rotting skin clapped her boney deformed hands and chanted repeatedly as she danced around, “Better yet, I caught myself a wolf-boy.” Her brittle voice, scratchy as dried tumbleweeds, and her bugged-out eyes scared him as much as his first encounter with the wolves.
She slapped a leather muzzle on him so he couldn’t bite her, prepared a pallet with a blanket, and dragged him to her wind-beaten shack at the edge of town. She set his leg in a splint and kept him penned up in a spare room that had belonged to the son she’d lost. She fed him well and turned on a picture-box, which he later learned, was a TV, to help teach him language and keep him entertained. As the days flew by he lost his desire to leave. She was good to him in her cross-tempered way, taught him to talk, and told him stories of the world. She insisted that he had to go to school or he wouldn’t be able to fend for himself when she rose to her final resting place.
She ordered him to call her Momma Maggie. Then she enrolled him in school as her son. “It’s vital that no one discovers you're a werewolf.”
Her worry on that count was groundless. No way would he spill his secrets. The kids already found his quiet, shy ways different and as Momma Maggie termed it, “off-putting.” She didn’t seem to mind that they found her equally odd and called her a witch. But she got fighting furious when they called him names and abused him. He could’ve gone for their throats and ended it. But Momma Maggie warned that if he did, the authorities would lock him away. “I’ve another answer,” she’d said, in her brittle tone. “I’ll enroll you in self-defense classes.”
He discovered he was not only adept at fighting, but he took to the adrenaline-high like an addict. However, once he downed the biggest bully the abuse stopped and the only practice he got was at the classes. The pumping adrenaline became so addictive that he went on to kick-boxing, karate, and later to Tai Chi for the opposing sense of calm and balance it provided.
Before Momma Maggie passed, cancer racked her body. He fetched and cared for her the best he could. Some folks whispered that he was the hag’s slave and should be taken from her and placed in a state home. Thank God his circumstance didn’t bother them enough to make the effort to call the state because if they’d called, he would’ve had to run away and leave Momma Maggie when she needed him most. And he’d grown to love her too much to desert her.
The Godly woman, who read her Bible aloud every night and taught him about the Lord, was a complicated bundle of contradictions. She surprised him one evening when she kissed his cheek for the first time, placed her treasured filigree cross around his neck and told him, in her gruff voice, that she loved him.
Blinking back the moisture in his eyes, he fingered the weightless cross woven of hair-fine gold threads and felt an odd, comforting warmth. Why hadn’t she sold the necklace for the gold during the many dry, dusty years of poverty? It amazed him that, after holding it dear for so long, she parted with it freely for the likes of him. He knew there was a lesson in her actions somewhere. With her, there always was.
He was twenty-two when she died. After her friendless graveside funeral, he packed his backpack with his meager belongings and took off for the MT. Baldy area. He’d heard a wealthy entrepreneur named Damon Lamont was working on a cure for lycanthropy and he wanted to be close-by when the serum was perfected. It would fulfill his dream to be normal and give him the freedom to seek the human family-life he’d never had. He blinked back tears. The lost, hurt feeling inside from loving Maggie warned him that he had to fight to stay detached from loving so deeply. He learned that such human emotions were dangerous.
With tender sentiments locked tightly away, he had stuck out his thumb to hitch a ride and to seek out his new life.
****
A day earlier, Damon’s murdered half-brother, Reeves’ bodiless spirit fed on his own evilness as he floated on the airwaves, searching for a new body to invade and inhabit. He grinned, when ahead, he spied a likely candidate. The tall, young man hopped agilely out of the big, black semi-truck on Foothill Boulevard and crossed the street to the cutoff to the MT Baldy Highway. The fine example of young manhood would be a perfect vessel. The kid was good-looking, lean yet muscular, and about the right age. He zoomed forward but when he tried to morph into the kid, an electrical charge knocked his invading vapor backward like ricocheting lightning. He tried three times before noticing the filigree cross dangling from a gold chain around the young man’s neck like indestructible armor. Reeves frowned and tried to yank the cross free. His hand shot through it as though it wasn’t there. Maybe he couldn’t invade the hearts of God lovers. That was okay. There were plenty of sinners out there.
Out of nowhere, a force like a tornado whisked Reeves to a college dorm where a young man named Rory Mansell resided. The muscular kid was smoking a reefer while watching porn on the internet. Reeves laughed. My kind of guy. How alike he and this young man were. And soon they would be one.
****
College student Rory Mansell pounded the desk with a powerful fist, making his computer rattle. The dark-haired beauty squirming on the screen reminded him of Victoria–the-Fickle who’d ditched him for the biker-exec. But he still had a chance with the other twin, Valerie, and he liked blondes better anyway. She was good for him. With Valerie’s gentle touch, he’d managed to control his flash of temper and not ruin a good thing.
He opened his private journal. Writing his thoughts down helped him zero in on the steps to a solid plan of action. He extended an arm and looked at his long fingers. For him, each finger represented a path that would take him in a different direction. His little finger w
as crooked from a childhood disease and epitomized the most often traveled path. Reviewing the fingers now was like standing on the highest point of the college clock tower and looking down at all the different paths going separate directions. Rory laughed. It must be fate that I always choose the crooked path.
Suddenly the air above Rory turned blast furnace hot. The heat entered his head and curled down through his body. His skin burned as though licked by flames. He stiffened as he felt an evil soul join his. Violent images swirled in his mind—blood and the ripped out throats of many women. His debauchery took on a new depth. Overpowering hatred grew within him like a cancer, and he lusted for revenge. His goal was no longer to merely target a beautiful coed with a rich daddy and marry her. He wanted Valerie’s Dad, Damon Lamont, to suffer a thousand deaths, and then he wanted to tear out his throat. Was he going mad?
****
Reeves’ blackened soul, now sharing Rory’s body, laughed out loud at his host’s confusion. The synergistic effect of joining two evil personalities resulted in a more violent man than it had with Lazar. As before, his evilness and stronger personality reined. Appearance wise and, for all practical purposes, he was Rory, college boy on his way up. He looked like him, shared his talents, and knew his secrets. This is the perfect setup. I’ve taken over the life and mind of a young man who’s already wormed his way into the Lamont Mansion—and has direct access to Damon and the family. Now I can have status, money and, best of all, bloody revenge.
Reeves smirked. Damon and Rick would be surprised to learn, that in spite of their deadly attack on me, death once again hadn’t been my final destination. No wonder the Devil resurrected me from the dead. I’m invincible. And as long as the Devil remains my partner, I can do whatever the hell I choose.
Chapter Three
It was almost noon and the sun rode high in the sky when Valerie saw Uncle Hugh standing beyond a hedge staring intently at the gardener, Brian. Equally intrigued, if not more so, Valerie stepped closer and surveyed the gorgeous hunk closely, staring at his shirtless, wide, straight back. His leanly-muscled, towering stature was enticingly poured into tight blue jeans. He stooped to pick up something silvery in the grass and a slicked-back lock of midnight-black hair fell forward, giving him a rugged bad-boy appearance that sent a thrill through her. His fast-clip working stride showed ambition and an animal elegance. If he were a wolf, as Uncle Hugh ridiculously hinted, he’d definitely be an alpha.
She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. Why am I thinking of wolves and worse yet, why am I lusting after the hired help?
Just days ago she’d been vaguely interested in Victoria’s cast off, Rory. Then this morning she’d found a delivery guy rather attractive, and last night she was lusting after a wolf, no less. Raging hormones and fate seemed to hurl her from one crazed infatuation to another. She closed her eyes. Please, Lord, help me ward off any rash actions. I don’t need more turmoil and confusion in my life.
When she opened her eyes again, the gardener must have felt her resumed scrutiny because he looked up. “Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?” He cut the mower engine and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag.
His steady eye-contact conveyed a straight-forwardness and approachability that, in spite of her pounding heart and flaming cheeks, gave her the courage to answer. “Since it’s such a hot day and nearly noon, I wondered if I could bring you some lemonade and maybe a sandwich?”
His powerful gaze was startlingly direct. “Sounds great,” he said in a low voice that vibrated through her.
His engaging smile reached within and triggered a current of desire. She fought the electricity of the almost overpowering possession. His chest glistened with sweat. A wave of desperate need made her knees weak. I’m in big trouble.
He watched her with an amused intensity that made her want to bolt.
“I’m almost through with this section,” he said, “and could use a break. That is, if you’re willing to join me, Miss—?” He tilted his head to the side and his wayward midnight-black lock fell forward again.
She found it hard to breathe. “I’m Valerie Lamont.”
His earth-brown eyes widened and he shifted uncomfortably. Mainly because his ill-at-ease demeanor disclosed that he wished he’d never suggested that she join him. She struggled for the guts to accept it. “The offer still stands and I see no reason not to join you.”
He clasped the back of his neck. “You’re related to the boss?”
“His daughter.”
He blew out a gust or air as though the relationship unbalanced him. Then he wiped his right palm on the rag hanging from his pocket and extended his hand. “Brian Jones.” His firm handshake was assertive without being challenging or arrogant.
She shivered at his touch. “I know,” she stammered like an idiot. Oh, God. Mom, Dad, and definitely Uncle Hugh wouldn’t approve of her toying with this stranger. But why should I care? My dear twin would never let family disapproval stop her. And Victoria’s life is working out pretty well. “We can sit under that tree,” she said, nodding to a shady elm, and then she took off running, like a moon-struck teenager, to fetch the Lemonade and sandwiches.
****
Ten minutes later, sitting under the elm, Valerie heard the sweet strains of a mockingbird coming from the high leafy branches. The happy sounds failed to relax her. Instead, she and Brian sat stiffly, drinking lemonade, inhaling its lemony aroma like a drug, and eating turkey sandwiches while pretending to admire the purple San Bernardino mountains to the East. Actually, they were doing a slow dance of sneaking glances at each other. His thirst seemed unquenchable, much like her own, and he sank his teeth into the bread like a ravenous animal. Darn it, one of us has to say something. “Dad said you’re from Trona.” She hated the tremor in her voice.
Brian’s smile was very intense, very male. “Yes, I’m one of those desert rats who finally escaped Cactusville to try my lot closer to the big city.”
“L.A.? Hmm. Are you looking for action or distance?”
“Mostly distance.” The strong emotion in his deep tone seemed tinged with an undercurrent of evasion. “But a little action might be interesting.”
Her gaze flew to his. His intense gaze hummed with sexual tension. She glanced down and stroked a blade of grass. “Well, I hope this place suits you. Dad says you’re a quiet guy. I hope the rat-race won’t be too frantic for you.”
“It suits me.” His direct eye contact remained steady, tender, and as consuming as a caress.
What did his amused expression mean? “Do you plan to stay awhile or are you a rolling stone?”
He leaned in closer. His eyes consumed her. “Do you care? Or is your question merely conversation.”
She forced a smile. “Not sure, only time will tell.” Her heartbeat escalated. Where would all this tension sizzling between them lead? Do I want it to lead somewhere? I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't.
“Fair enough. But now I know I’ll like working here at the mansion. Everything is so beautiful. I intend to put my whole heart into the grounds and sculpt it into the show place of the county it deserves to be.”
Valerie smiled. The pride in his voice was strong. It was as though he wanted to be part of the land and carve his mark on it. The fervent way he was looking at her suggested he might want to carve his mark on her as well.
“If you want to keep your job, maybe you should table the showplace idea until you talk to Dad. He likes to keep a low profile.” To avoid Brian questioning her statement about her dad, she hurried on. “Have you always wanted to be a gardener or is the job a stepping stone to something else?”
His eyes twinkled. “If your Dad’s recluse attitude is off-limits, how about telling me about you?”
She laughed. "Glad to. But the mystery about you intrigues me and before we move on, I’d like to know one more thing about you. Do you have family somewhere?” Why was that so important to her?
He shifted on the grass. “Not anymore. Momma Maggie, my
only family, recently died of cancer.” Valerie heard the discomfort and deep sorrow in his voice. “Now,” he said in a clipped tone, “enough about me. Tell me who Valerie Lamont is beside a lovely young woman born with a sterling-silver spoon in her mouth.”
She winced. “Ouch. What do you have against folks who’ve worked hard and earned a few bucks?”
He shook his head and broke into a grin. Then he reached for her hand, turned it over and looked at the palm. “Very smooth. Are you defending your dad or yourself?” His voice was husky, his inflection challenging.
Reeling from his touch, she could barely quip, “Both.” On the breeze, she caught the scent of fur. It seemed to come from him. She sniffed, and then wrestled with herself over the next question. What the heck, she thought. “Do you have a dog?”
Tension charged between them and he went deadly silent. The silence between them lengthened, then he laughed. “Do I smell like a dog?”
Then she laughed, too. “Maybe it’s me. I haven’t showered yet today.”
What was this indefinable complex connection zinging between them? She squared her shoulders and sat up straighter.
“You smell fine,” Brian said, “even enticing.”
He scooted closer. His nearness made her acutely aware of the rhythm of his breathing and acutely aware of her rising desire.
He stared at her lips a long time.
Was he also struggling with yearning and control? A number of things about him deeply interested her and at the same time frightened her. His magnetism drew her to him, but the mystery behind him showing up at their place unexpectedly worried her.
“How did you learn about the gardener’s job? Dad’s ad won’t come out in the paper until tomorrow.”
He laughed. “Maybe I’m psychic.”
“Yeah, right.” It scared her that he kept her off balance, and contributed to the wild, electrifying tension soaring between them. If she wanted to keep her heart intact and keep her resolve to remain aloof until she knew exactly who this guy was and what he represented as an individual, she had to fight the spell he was weaving over her. She groaned internally. The pull was growing stronger every minute. It’s dangerous that all we have in common is an unquenchable longing and slipping control. Or am I imagining his lust?
